


No Excuses Offered Anyway

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time Blow Jobs, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles catches Scott wearing black lace panties. He can't stop thinking about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Excuses Offered Anyway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weavesunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weavesunlight/gifts).



> Title from the Rolling Stones' "Let's Spend the Night Together".

Stiles stops, heart pounding a rhythm that feels like it’s in his throat as he gazes ahead. It’s been a long time since he used his key and maybe he should’ve texted, knocked, breathed heavily, done anything to alert Scott of his presence, because this looks _private_ in the kind of way he didn’t think existed between them. Then Scott looks up at him — square in the eyes – and he realizes Scott knew he was there all along.

“Hey,” Stiles says, unable to stop his eyes from sweeping up and down Scott’s body.

He’s filling out a little more every month, muscles boardening as well as toning – looking more powerful, more capable every day. And that’s only accentuated by the black satin and lace panties he’s wearing. They look tight, but not uncomfortable, and Stiles’ eyes focus longer than they should on where his cock bulges obscenely, crested with a tiny bow. He’s swallowed four times when he finally looks up to see Scott watching him.

Scott’s expression is strangely blank. Stiles is so used to reading his every emotion – sometimes wishes he couldn’t – sometimes wishes Scott would talk more rather than let everything he feels play across his face – but he usually doesn’t, Stiles has to be able to interpret and assume. This time, he can’t even do that.

“You look good,” Stiles offers, because he needs to break the silence, he doesn’t actually feel any remorse for suddenly appearing, and he’s usually truthful with Scott. Even when he doesn’t want to be.

“I feel good,” Scott says with a careless shrug.

He steps into his jeans, turns to his dresser and pulls on a shirt, and it seems like no time at all before they’re out of the house, meeting up with the other members of the pack. Stiles has no clue, none at all, what happens the rest of the day.

*

He shouldn’t think about it, he should let it go, he doesn’t have to turn this into a big deal. So, naturally, he obsesses. Constantly. He wonders how many pairs of panties Scott has, and what colors they are, and how he bought them, and whether he wears them to school, and how the material feels against the sensitive skin of his cock. It looked soft and smooth. Stiles wants to know how it would feel against the pads of his fingers.

He spends days thinking about it, tongue going dry, suddenly realizing he’s sucking on a pen, or the cuff of his hoodie, or, God, his fingers. At one point during econ Scott stares at him as if he _knows_ , an eyebrow quirking up in a way that could be inquisitive or enticing or both. It takes all of Stiles’ self-will not to stumble to standing and ask to be excused so he can jerk off in the restroom.

He follows Scott home that night. He doesn’t mean to, he just does, like he used to when they were nine and he felt like nothing but a burden to his dad. When Scott would beg his mom to let Stiles stay for a sleepover, even before Stiles asked if he could. Scott doesn’t seem at all surprised that he’s outside his house, Jeep parked on the street and backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair’s still in disarray from his helmet, but he’s gotten two glasses of milk ready and he offers one with a silent smile.

“I hope you’re in an assignment writing mood, because I have two due next week and I haven’t started yet,” Scott says, almost like a warning, like quiet admonition.

“Okay,” Stiles replies, because he can wait, he can be responsible, even if he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to rush Scott, or push him into anything he doesn’t want.

They sit down at the kitchen table and Scott places his books in front of him with a thud. Stiles takes another long, slow drink of milk before he echoes him and they set to work.

It’s at least two and a half hours later by the time Stiles has gotten to the point he’s all wound up with nowhere to go.

“Is it a boxer briefs day or a panties day?” he asks, aware that it’s completely left of field. Thirty seconds ago they were discussing the Russian revolution – and even that had nothing to do with their homework.

“Panties,” Scott says. He was waiting for this. He was so obviously waiting for this. He looks almost mischievous. But he isn’t giving an inch, he hasn’t said ‘Wanna see?’

“Would you show me?” Stiles asks, hesitant in a way he almost never is.

Scott nods. “Not here,” he says, standing and pulling Stiles up with a hand around his wrist. Instead of letting go when they get to the stairs, he curls his fingers lower around Stiles’ hand. Stiles opens up and grasps onto him firmly.

Scott leads him to his bedroom and even though Stiles once spent a week straight there and even helped pick out the color of the paint, this feels like uncharted territory.

Scott starts to strip his sweatshirt off, then his shirt. Stiles doesn’t know whether he’s only supposed to be a spectator or a participant, so he hangs back, but Scott beckons him over and uses his shoulder as an anchor while he kicks off his shoes. He carefully places Stiles’ hands on his belt like he’s giving him an out. His eyes are considering, calm, but Stiles can see the twitch of his jaw. Stiles nods softly, bites into his lower lip as he gazes down.

He watches his fingers as if they don’t belong to him as they methodically open Scott’s belt buckle and slide the belt out from the loops of his jeans. He thumbs at the fly and lets out a shuddery breath as red lace comes into view. He pushes his jeans further down his hips, heels of his hands brushing against what feels like silk. It’s like a second skin against Scott, perfectly framing every muscle, every soft curve. Stiles’ throat feels tight, but he ignores it in favor of his cock, hardening against the zipper of his own jeans.

“How many?” he asks, gently brushing his fingers over Scott’s hips, sliding over skin and satin, hearing a hitch in his breathing.

“Three,” Scott says, voice thick. “I have a pink pair too. They have frills. Not so comfortable for every day use.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Stiles asks, stepping even closer, until they’re sharing the same air.

“A couple of months,” Scott says. “Do you really need an explanation?”

“No, but maybe I want one,” Stiles says with a teasing wink. “Can I touch you?”

“You’re already touching me,” Scott teases back with a huff.

“Can I touch your dick?” Stiles amends.

Scott’s stomach flexes and then he breathes out a hushed, “Yeah.”

Stiles slides over the straining lace, the texture rough and scouring against the pads of his fingers. He wants to know how it’d feel against his tongue. How Scott’s dick would feel without fabric between them. He can’t even articulate to himself how much he wants to explore this, he has no hope of explaining. But he thinks Scott knows, somehow. Knew before Stiles did.

“You knew what this would do to me, didn’t you?”

Scott presses a kiss against his jaw in answer. “I had an idea. But I don’t want you thinking it’s for you,” he says, authoritative.

“No?”

“No. I like it. It’s for me, no one else.”

“That’s so hot,” Stiles moans. He tilts his head down so that Scott’s second kiss lands on his lips. Scott seems temporarily surprised, reeling back a second, but warms up to it quickly, kissing again firmer, with more surety. Stiles reaches up to cradle the back of his head, deepning it further.

“I can’t believe that you demanded we finish our homework before this,” Stiles says after a long, drugging kiss. He shakes his head. “Actually, the sad part is that I _can_ believe that.”

Scott has taken his jeans off completely and kicked them to the other side of the room. He’s helped Stiles take off his hoodie and shirt and is working at the button of his jeans.

“I spent at least eight periods this week wondering when you were gonna make your move. I needed to catch up.”

“Only eight? Scott, try all day, every day. You’re the best worst distraction.”

Scott’s hands are curved around his sides, his are around Scott’s hips and Stiles is aware they’re just holding onto each other, mostly naked but not exposed. It’s too late for that, with them.

“What do you wanna do?” Scott asks, gazing at him like he’s ready to give him the world.

“Everything,” Stiles replies. “But I’d really like to blow you, if you’re okay with that?”

“Am I supposed to disagree? Because that’s not happening.”

Stiles grins before he can stop himself, feels so loving he has to show it somehow. He leans forward and kisses Scott again, sweet and soft.

“Good,” he states simply.

They rearrange themselves for comfort’s sake; Scott sitting on the bed with his legs splayed, a pillow on the floor under Stiles’ knees. Scott’s still wearing the red panties, but only just, the head of his cock poking out the top. Scott has one hand in Stiles’ hair, the other clutching his comforter. Stiles rubs his mouth against Scott’s inner thigh and then plants a trail of kisses up, watching and calculating all the while. He ducks down and starts on the other side and smiles to himself as Scott’s fingers unclench and clench against his scalp. He wants to make Scott feel good, but he also wants to take his time. He understands the value of waiting when it’s not being used against him.

“Is this punishment?” Scott asks when Stiles kisses his navel and starts another journey over his abs.

“A little bit,” Stiles confesses, but he finally presses his palm against Scott’s cock and squeezes him a couple times before licking against the fabric of his panties. He pointedly avoids the leaking head that seems to be begging for attention.

It feels amazing; warm, rough, hard. He pulls back, stares at the darkened material, the satin under the lace turning matte. He never noticed the lace is made up of interconnected flowers before. In some places his saliva glistens against the netting and he wants to suck on it again so he does, mouths against it sloppily. He could do this all night. He’s not sure Scott could stand it, but he’d like to test his stamina one day.

Sometimes he can get jaded and feel likes he’s seen and done everything, because the last few years have been hellish, but this is nothing he’s ever done before, it’s all new, and it’s incredible.

He glances up and Scott is staring at him with heat, so much more focused than Stiles feels.

“You like that?” Scott asks, and it isn’t even close to a taunt. It’s not a statement either. He really seems to want to know.

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles gusts out, rolling his shoulders back and stretching out his neck as he watches Scott shiver.

He goes back to mouthing at Scott through the material of his panties, closing his eyes to concentrate harder, so all he has is the sensation of Scott against his tongue, short fingernails against his scalp. Scott directs him gently with the slightest tug, the smallest nudge. The sounds of his sucking are loud in the silence of the room and only sometimes get drowned out with Scott’s harsh breaths and the pounding of his own heart.

Stiles slides off again as he starts to work the panties down Scott’s hips, needs to touch him skin to skin.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you,” he admits. He doesn’t know why he says it like it’s a secret when he’s positive it’s not. He looks at Scott through barely opened eyes, watches how his plush lips part and his cheeks go pink. “All the things I wanna do for you, Scotty.”

“You could stop talking and get started?” Scott suggests, mock-sweetly, and Stiles won’t ever tell him he loves it when he’s a little shit, but dammit, he adores the evidence of his corruption.

“You might regret this,” Stiles warns.

He’s just bantering, but Scott bends down, presses their foreheads together, strokes a thumb over his cheek. “I really won’t.”

Stiles looks down again, partly to ignore Scott being earnest – it always has the capacity to break him – partly because he’s been neglecting him for too long. Scott’s cock is flushed deep red and hard, curving up against his abdomen even with the panties holding it up. And Stiles has seen this before, but Scott was smaller then and it was awkwarder, and he doesn’t think Scott was hard because of him.

Stiles has to adjust himself as he sucks Scott’s cock without satin and lace between them. Has to be careful about taking measured breaths inbetween taking more inches into his mouth. Scott arches up beneath him occasionally, obviously restraining himself. He lets out a couple of breathy sounds that sound like whimpers. Stiles has never heard that sound before in his life and he thinks he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to hear it again. One of Scott’s hands returns to Stiles’ head, but only rests there, never pushing. Stiles kind of wants him to let loose and demand, and kind of wants to be the one pushing Scott, and kind of has no ability to think anything except wanting Scott to come.

Stiles rubs against Scott’s thigh, where the panties still rest, just above his knees, so Scott can’t spread his legs like he keeps trying to. He pulls off and kisses the tip of his cock, sucks it in again deeper, is gratified when he licks under the head and makes Scott groan. He does that again and again, until he has to use his free hand to hold tightly onto the base of his own cock or he’ll come before Scott can, just because the sounds he makes are _indecent_. When Scott whimpers again, Stiles takes him deeper, deeper even than he thought he’d be able to, and works until his jaw starts to ache.

The muscles in Scott’s thigh are jumping and his breath rattles with the same worrying infrequency he used to have when he was asthmatic. Stiles is about to stop and check on him when Scott begins pulling insistently at his hair and murmuring, “I’m gonna…”

Stiles slides off and leaves his mouth open and his tongue lolling out, gazing up at Scott because he wants to see his expression. Scott looks nothing like Stiles has seen him before; eyes dark and completely unfocused, lips even redder, like he couldn’t stop biting them, skin glistening and hair flattening against his forehead. He looks undone, and Stiles would apologize, but within a second Scott’s coming all over his jaw — so no, he’s not sorry. He thinks he needs to teach Scott how to aim better, though. He swipes some of Scott’s come off his chin and sucks his finger into his mouth, curious. Next time, he’ll convince Scott to come in his mouth.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Scott says after a couple of moments, chest heaving.

He pets him with uncoordinated, slightly hard taps that Stiles surges up into as he finally wraps his own fist around his cock and strokes off. It hardly takes any effort before he’s spurting over his fingers, dirtying up his boxer briefs and Scott’s pillowcase. He rests against Scott’s thigh for a while, catching his breath. Part of him never wants to move, wants to stay in this moment of elation forever.

When he finally looks up again Scott’s smiling down at him. Stiles is incapable of doing anything but mirroring him as he stands shakily, Scott bracing his forearm. He thinks his own smile may be manic. He doesn’t care. He helps Scott stand in turn and helps him slide his panties off completely. They’re a mess and Stiles isn’t remotely ashamed that he’s already thinking of other pairs he could buy for Scott.

“Is there anything else you do for you that you’d like me to know about?” Stiles asks.

He’s being facetious, which Scott has to know, but Scott answers him anyway, expression carefully blank once more.

“I have a dildo that I still haven’t gotten the hang of. You should spot me some time, give me some pointers.”

Stiles can feel himself blushing, which is _ridiculous_. “Oh my God.”

“What about you?” Scott asks, pulling Stiles in the direction of the bathroom, entwining their fingers. Stiles only stumbles once or twice. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Scott, I wanna show you,” Stiles says, emphatically. “All the things.”

“Yeah,” Scott says with a sweet, wry grin. “I’ve found that approach really works.”


End file.
